


Wash 'n Fold Laundry (Open 'Til 1AM)

by brooklinegirl



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/pseuds/brooklinegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late night laundry on the World Contamination tour. (6700 words)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash 'n Fold Laundry (Open 'Til 1AM)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to mrsronweasley, as always, forever, for on-the-spot betaing, fixing my conversations, and being, in general, fantastic. ♥
> 
> This fic is for shiningartifact's birthday, which was...nearly a month ago, but it's still August, so it totally counts as being close to on time! Ms. shiningartifact, I'm SO glad to have you as a friend, I hope your coming year is AMAAAAAZING, and this fic is for something you and I discussed LO these many months - possibly even a year - ago. It's maybe not exactly what you expected, but hopefully you'll like it anyway. With love! For you!

"I know how a washing machine works, Frank." Gerard's pushing his hair back out of his face, and it's been long enough since he washed it that the hair stays pretty much where he pushes it, curving up from his head in this sort of red wave. Gerard doesn't notice.

"All evidence to the contrary?" Frank watches as Gerard studies the packets of soap he'd bought from the machine at the front of the laundromat, with quarters he'd borrowed from Frank.

"Shut up," Gerard says absently. "It says to use fabric softener, too. Do I do that?"

  "Fucking - yes, of course, you use fucking fabric softener. What is your _deal_?" Frank pushes Gerard towards the machines with his hip. "Go. Pick a machine."

Gerard grabs the long strap of the overfull duffel bag at his feet - they couldn't even get it zipped up, so clothes are bursting out of it. Gerard doesn't even try to lift it, just drags it behind him by the strap, tripping over his feet a little when it bumps up against them, heading to the line of machines at the back of the shop.

It's a crappy little laundromat in - Frank has to think for a second to remember where they are - Salt Lake City and it's after ten at night. The place is apparently open 'til one AM ("That's our slogan," the bored kid flipping through a magazine at the front counter had said when Frank asked.) - which, thank God, because they have gone into serious laundry danger-times. _No one_ has any clean clothes left, and when it got to the point that even Gerard was stealing Frank's only-worn-twice-so-not-actually-dirty shirts and skanking them up, it was time for laundry.

"Don't we have people who could do this for us?" Gerard's poking at the buttons on the machine, but not actually paying attention to what they say, apparently.

Frank nudges him aside. "Yes. At the next hotel stop. Which is in four days. In four days, your clothes will be able to walk by themselves."  

Gerard's leaning on the next washer, moving his head to the - really fucking terrible - music that's playing over the speakers. Frank thinks it might be Keen and is just pretty happy the sound is low. He hits the right settings on the washer.

"No, hey, keep it on delicate." Gerard's frowning at the machine.

"Delicate." Frank looks at him, then down at the bags crammed with filthy clothes sitting at their feet. "Seriously, if it had an _industrial_ setting, I'd go for it."

Gerard's down on one knee now, delicately picking through the laundry, spilling dirty jeans and rancid socks out over the floor. "My shirts need the delicate cycle." He holds one up, studying it. It's his Iron Maiden t-shirt with the lettering worn off and a frayed collar.  

Frank sighs and moves over to get the next two washers set up, letting Gerard continue to rummage through the bag, carefully setting aside about five items of clothing that are, apparently, _key_ to his appearance.  

Gerard stays down there on the floor, one knee up, his other leg tucked underneath him, watching as Frank starts sorting through the clothes in his bag. "What are you doing?"

Frank looks up from the pile of jeans and shirts in his hand. "Uh. Laundry."

Gerard shakes his head, smiling a little. "Shut up, I know that." He pokes a little bit at his bag, but makes no move to get up and actually take steps towards getting the clothes clean.

Frank dumps his pile into the washer, then grabs the pile of lights he'd sorted out and dumps them in the next one. Fuck. They're gonna need like six washers to get through all of this. "Sorting, you mean? Lights and darks, Gee. Otherwise your clothes end up all gray."

Gerard pushes himself up off the floor in one weirdly smooth move. "But _I'm_ the princess, huh?" He nudges Frank, grinning, and - finally - starts pushing his clothes into one of the washers. He's wrinkling his nose and looks like he's trying not to touch the clothes any more than he has to. He eyes one of Frank's machines, his "delicate" t-shirts in his hand.

  "Uh-uh." Frank stands in front of the washer with all of his light clothes. "Get your own."  

Gerard pouts at him, but Frank stands firm.

"Fine, motherfucker." Gerard dumps the shirts into a different washer, then pats his pockets. "Uh. Do you have more quarters?"

"Useless," Frank sighs. "You're _useless_ at this." He digs a pile of quarters out of his jacket and pours them into Gerard's open hand.

Gerard nods, still moving his hips to the music a little bit as he starts to feed the quarters into the little set of slots of his machine. "I'm good at other things, though."

"Like stealing clothes?" Frank's got two washers full of dark clothes and he's eyeing the army shirt Gerard's wearing. Frank's army shirt. Frank's army shirt that Gerard's been wearing for three days straight now. "Take that off. We're washing it."

Gerard's still working out getting all the quarter into the slots, concentrating on it like it's rocket science. "Huh?" He glances down at himself when Frank pokes his chest. "No, I'm wearing it." He's studying the back of the packet of detergent one more time.

"I know." Frank tugs at the buttons on the front and Gerard tries to slap his hands away. "Look. I can't even get the buttons open. It's _stiff_ with your disgusting sweat."

"Sto-op!" Gerard draws the word out, sounding for all the world like a teenage girl. "It's just gotten worn in enough to be really comfortable. It's fine!"  

"It's _mine_ ," Frank points out - uselessly, because this is how tour works: if you leave an article of clothing unattended, it's free game for whoever comes along looking for something that smells less than what they currently have on.

Gerard quickly slams shut the lid on his washer. "Too late!"   He's trying to maintain a triumphant face, but he's fighting giggles, hunched over the machine.

Frank stares at him. "We're in a _laundromat_." He waves his hand around. "There are eighty goddamn washing machines." He's fighting giggles himself. "And I have _all the motherfucking quarters_."  

Gerard's laughing out loud now, and Frank launches himself at him, wrestling him up against the machine and going for the buttons on the shirt again. They're both laughing too hard for it to be effective, but Frank's got the top three buttons open and the shirt half off of one of Gerard's shoulder by the time Gerard gasps out, "Okay, okay, oh my God." He pushes Frank back, then sags against the machine, breathless and red in the face, still huffing out giggles.

Frank watches him, narrowing his eyes in a hopefully menacing manner.

 Gerard waves out his hand, breathing hard and undoing the rest of the buttons with his other hand. "You win, okay, you _win_." He strips the shirt off, tossing it in Frank's face.

  "Oh God, that is _rank_." Frank snatches it off of his face, holding it out with two fingers. "I should get a separate washer just for this."

Gerard's tugging his threadbare t-shirt back into place - the struggle had left it half-tugged down his shoulder, too. "You're such a dick about laundry," he says, his tone all snotty and dignified.

"Yup." Frank finishes sorting out the clothes across three washers, tossing the army shirt into the last one. He gets his three small boxes of detergent open, dumps them into each washer one after the other, and closes the lids. He shoves the coins home with three sharp pushes, right in a row, and the machines kick on with a satisfying echo of rushing water.

He turns, sees Gerard leaning against one of his washers with his arms crossed. "Fabric softener?" he asks.

"Dryer sheets." Frank holds up the box. "Powder-fresh." 

Gerard's nose crinkles as he tries not to grin. "Gotcha." He looks down at the half-full bag on the floor, then bends down, lifts it up, and dumps it into the washer behind him. Frank just watches as Gerard stuffs the filthy clothes down into the machine - darks, whites, towels, all mixed together, willy-nilly.

Frank doesn't sigh, but he does have to look away while Gerard messes with the box of detergent, finally getting it ripped open. When Frank risks a look over, he's splitting it between the two machines. "Oh Jesus Christ, Gerard, just -"

  "It's all good!" Gerard slams the lid down, slides the coin slot in on both machines, and steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans and beaming. "There. Laundry. Happy?"  

"Thrilled," Frank mutters.

***

They settle down in the line of hard plastic chairs by the back row of washers. Frank's brought _The Alchemist_ to read and he settles down with it. Gerard's fiddling with his bag, dragging out - of course - a sketch pad, and a set of pencils, and a set of colored pens, and a...book of color palettes? He starts arranging them all finicky on the chair beside him.

Frank starts to read, but he's distracted - first by the hard plastic under his ass, and then by Gerard making _tsk_ ing noises under his breath as his supplies keep sliding into a heap in the dip in the center of the seat. The machines are all churning away at once in front of them and it's both distracting and kind of soothing - it echoes the feel of being on the bus, steady white noise in the background, sort of closing the world off around them.

He watches Gerard fuss, and Gerard finally looks up. "This is annoying," he says, blowing out a breath that lifts his dirty red hair off of his forehead.

Frank nods sympathetically. "It's a laundromat, not an art studio."

  Gerard makes a face at him, and Frank shifts his ass on the hard seat. "Clean clothes," he says. "Clean, soft clothes that smell _good_."

 Gerard shrugs, fiddling with his sketch book.

" _Socks_ ," Frank says. Socks are a major commodity on tour. They're always the first things to go missing, one by one.

Gerard nods, grudgingly.

Frank settles back and gets caught up in his book. Gerard is rustling and shifting and mumbling beside him, but it's about as settled as Gerard gets, so they're good. When the machines click off, one by one, Frank nudges Gerard to come help him switch out the loads.

Frank shakes out his damp clothes, tossing them in to the dryer separately so they'll dry faster. Gerard takes out huge armfuls from the washers, cramming them into the dryer with the force of his body behind them, leaving his shirt damp all down the front when he finally steps back.

Frank hands him quarters wordlessly, and Gerard beams at him and starts feeding them into the dryer.

He puts his five Iron Maiden t-shirts into a separate dryer, all by themselves.

They go through the motions of this in comfortable silence, still caught up in their own heads. Gerard watches as Frank stuffs a dryer sheet into each of their dryers, nodding approvingly.

"Powder fresh," he says, when Frank turns around, and Frank high-fives him.

They settle back in, Gerard muttering at his sketch pad and Frank sinking into his book.

After a while Frank gets up, wandering over to the dryers, checks the time. Still a while to go. He hoists himself up on to one of the washers and leans back on his hands, looking around the place. They're the only ones there. The kid manning the counter up front is tilted way back in his chair, headphones in, eyes closed. Frank can't even see anyone on the dark street outside. It's nice. Sequestered, sort of. Like a break.

"It's kind of nice -" He cuts himself off when he sees Gerard hunched over his sketchpad, glancing up at Frank and then back down again, his pen moving in quick, sweeping movements. "Oh, goddammit, motherfucker, we talked about this. Stop it."  

"Hang on." Gerard's got his lip caught in his teeth, and when Frank leans forward, he motions him back impatiently. "Just for a second, okay? Just - "  

He trails off, his pen still moving, his hair in his face. Frank frowns and leans back. "Not everyone is your personal model," he says grumpily.

"You do the same thing to me when you take pictures." Gerard's watching him through his eyelashes, quick glances up and back to the page.

"That is _false_." Frank points a finger at Gerard and Gerard does a quick shake of his head, gesturing for Frank to return to his previous position. Frank leans back, blowing out his breath. "I try to capture you in your natural habitat."  

"I do that, too," Gerard responds absently. "It just takes longer." He keeps drawing for a minute or so, his hand moving a little more slowly, detail stuff, and Frank, sighing, keeps the pose for him.

Gerard finally gets up, holding the sketchbook at a little bit of a tilt in front of him. "It's not bad," he says, wandering over to Frank. "Just a quick thing."

He leans up next to Frank, holding the sketch out so he can see it. It is a quick thing, the details more implied than drawn, and he'd clearly been focused on the angles of Frank's body - the tilt of his arms as he leaned back, the angle of his knees as his feet dangled over the washer, the line of his jaw that Frank's not used to seeing - he does tend to jut his jaw out when he knows he's being looked at, watched, and Gerard got that, that vaguely aggressive feel to it with just a handful of lines.

Frank reaches out to hold the book, but Gerard doesn't let go, just shifts closer so he's right up next to Frank, watching as Frank studies the sketch. "It's cool," Frank says. "You're good at getting the feel of things. I wasn't making that face before I knew you were drawing, though."

  "I know." Gerard tilts his head a little. "I waited until after you got a little pissy to do your face."

  Frank should really not be surprised. "You're such a dick."

Gerard shrugs. "I know." He shifts a little, setting the sketchbook down on the next washer over. Frank's still craning his head, eyeing the sketch, so when Gerard moves so he's in front of him, pushing his knees apart, he's not expecting it. "Uh. Hi," he says.

Gerard's right up in front of him. His face is pretty much on level with Frank's and he's leaning in close. His hands are hot on Frank's thighs and his breath is against Frank's face, smelling like the cigarette he'd had before they came in. "This is a good height," he says, sounding surprised. He's runs his hands up Frank's legs, anchors them on his thighs. "You're, like, right here. It would be good for, you know." He makes this move with his hips that's really dirty and Frank blinks.

"Yeah," Frank manages. "Did you never do that? Sex on the washing machine can be kind of awesome. The, you know." He gestures. "Vibrations."  

"Oh." Gerard presses forward, like he's trying it out, but the machine is still. "You should have told me that earlier."

"Sorry," Frank says. Gerard's right there in front of him, hands heavy on Frank's thighs, watching him. "Gerard. Uh. What are you -"

  Gerard leans in, presses his lips against Frank's. Gerard's hands slide further up his thighs, and he's moving his lips, a little open, soft and smooth. No tongue yet but, like, _implied_ tongue. A prelude to tongue.

Frank makes a little sound in his throat and puts his hands against Gerard's shoulders, pushing him back.

Gerard's eyes are huge and dark and his hair is a messy tangle over his forehead. He's looking at Frank. Waiting.

"What are we doing?" Frank asks. "What - I mean, why -"  

Gerard shrugs a little. His cheeks are red. "It's just - it feels like the way it was, you know? Before we were - all this."  

 _All this_ encompasses a lot. Frank shifts carefully, Gerard's fingertips moving softly against his thighs. "All this, like - what?"  

Gerard tilts his head. "The band - back then, before we had money, or, like, a bus, or anything." He bites his lip. "And us, back then." He pauses, and Frank can only wait. "Before we had - all this history. All this - everything."

Frank knows he's not talking about Jamia - Jamia's always been here, always been with Frank. There was a time before her, but he doesn't like to think about that. And Lindsey - Lindsey is clearly the girl for Gerard, and Gerard, the guy for her. That's not what this is about. It's about - Frank's having a hard time finding the words, too. He gets it - he's been feeling it, lately, this shift between them, of how they are together.

"Yeah," Frank says, but he's not sure what he's agreeing with. He's trying to decide if he should move enough that Gerard steps back, that they break this moment, that things shift back to the way they've been for ages now, for years. "I get it. You and me, and how it was, before. But." He stops to breathe for a second, to fucking _think_. "You should have asked."  

"Sorry." Gerard bites his lip, still looking at Frank.

"We should talk about this." Because they don't just do this. They've never just done this, not since Gerard cleaned up.

  "I do talk about this." Gerard's shifting up against him, fingers pressing against Frank's thighs.

"With who?" Frank manages.

"With Linds." Gerard hasn't moved, but he seems like he's pressing closer. "With you."  

Frank has a sudden, vivid flash of what that conversation with Lindsey might have been like - intense and detailed, her asking about them or, maybe, easy and light-hearted and agreeable, not a big thing, not a big deal.  

He looks at Gerard then, meets his eyes. No. It was - is - a big deal.

"Not with me," is what he says in response. "No, I - you didn't. We didn't."  

"We did." Gerard sounds honestly surprised. His palms are warm against Frank's thighs. "We so totally _did_."

Frank thinks he would remember. "Uh-uh."

Gerard frowns at him. "We did. We do it all the goddamn time. We talk about who we were. Who we are. How we got here." He gestures around, taking in the dingy laundromat with a spread hand, but - Frank knows what he means.

"That doesn't -"

  Gerard cuts him off, his eyes dark and serious. "We talk about how we never change. How we evolve, maybe, but we're always who we were, how we're still those same kids in a basement spilling our hearts out. I thought you got it." He studies Frank's eyes, and his face eases up, the tiny, tiny lines around his eyes crinkle a little, sudden. "I think you _do_."

Frank hadn't. He _hadn't_. Gerard had kissed him. That wasn't what they did _now_ , and fuck, it was barely what they had done _then_. That was drunk hooking-up. That was them having _problems_.

"You didn't say it." Frank's kind of surprised by how calm he manages to sound, like he's just looking for an explanation, not like he's barely holding it together.

Gerard's not backing away. "Jamia knows. Jamia said it. To me. She said it."  
   
The heat that blasts through Frank is half jealousy. Which is really fucking stupid, because him and Jamia are a sure fucking thing, and Gerard isn't someone he ever needs to be jealous of. But - they talked about this? "You talked about this?"  

Gerard jerks his head in a nod. "We did. She said -" He stops, swallows, seems unsure for the first time tonight. "She said you knew."

  "I - " Frank's ready to say _no_ , but...maybe. Maybe. Things happened so goddamn fast, considering how long it all took. The two albums, the two babies, the country spread between him and rest of the band. The flights, the sessions, the press, the recordings. Frank torn between LA and Jersey. Those last few weeks of him at home, with J, always with her, her huge belly, on the cusp of the biggest change of their lives. And ready for it, so fucking ready. Poised.

Gerard's watching him, patient, not fidgeting.

Frank thinks about Jamia's face. They've been in this together. She's been there with him forever. She loves him. She loves Gerard. She always seemed to get it, back then, and apparently she gets it better than Frank does, right now.

"I didn't think," Frank says slowly, looking for the words. "That this was an option."  

Gerard blinks, then his face spreads into a huge smile. "Frankie," he says. "This is _us_." 

It's as clear an answer as he's ever going to get. When Gerard leans in, it feels like gravity. The kiss is intense and serious, right out of the gate. Frank breaks it off to breathe, rolls his forehead against Gerard's. "Dude, I really would never have guessed that laundry was the way to get you going."

Gerard honks out a laugh. "Shut the fuck up." He kisses Frank again, dragging him closer, and Frank's on the edge of the washer, his feet in their sneakers hooked up around Gerard's hips, the soft whoosh of the dryers surrounding them. He's eight states and two thousand miles away from Jamia and he still feels her the same way he feels the beating of his own heart.

Gerard has his fingers under the hem of Frank's t-shirt, and his tongue in Frank's mouth, and it's been years since they've done this. Frank's heart is beating a mile a minute and if he moves forward any further, he'll be _climbing_ Gerard.

"Gee," he pants against Gerard's lips, but Gerard just mumbles against his lips and slides his fingers into the waist of Frank's jeans.

Frank groans against his lips, wraps his legs tighter around him. Gerard pants out, "Fuck, Frankie -" and the buzzers on three dryers behind them go off one after the other.

Gerard jerks away, staring wildly over Frank's shoulder for a second before dropping his head down to giggle against his skin. "Fuck laundry," he says. " _Fuck_ it."

Frank's cracking up, losing his shit, his legs losing their hold around Gerard's hips. "Fuck." He pushes back on Gerard's shoulders. "C'mon. They're gonna wrinkle."

  "Wrinkle." Gerard's moving back, but he sounds personally offended. "You're worried about wrinkles."  

Frank ignores him, opening up the first dryer and hauling the - clean! fresh! unwrinkled! - clothes out and dumping them into a clothes cart. "Grab another cart, Gee." When he looks over, Gerard is adjusting himself in his jeans and scowling at him, but he looks around vaguely for another cart.

Frank's focusing on the laundry, keeping his hands busy, but his brain is still spiraling around what just happened. He looks over at Gerard, who's frowning and pulling clothes out of the dryer slowly. It's just Gerard - filthy hair and rumpled t-shirt that Frank is fairly certain comes from the woman's department. His cheeks are still a little red.

Frank turns resolutely back to the table, shaking out jeans and folding them, setting aside socks to be matched up later. He turns around as Gerard brushes up against him, dumping a giant pile of clothes out of his arms and onto the table in front of Frank. A t-shirt and a bunch of socks tumble off onto the dusty floor.

Gerard shrugs when Frank just looks at him for a long moment. "I couldn't find a cart."

Frank looks down at the clothes on the ground, then back up at Gerard. "You don't understand how laundry works."  

"Eh," says Gerard, nudging at the socks on the floor with his foot, then looking up at Frank through his eyelashes. "Mostly I just don't _care_ how laundry works."

He moves up close to Frank again, nudging against him with his hip until Frank turns around, a t-shirt still clutched in his hand. "Maybe you don't care about laundry, but _I_ -"

He gets cut off, because of Gerard's tongue in his mouth. Gerard's kissing him, half-laughing. Frank's got his eyes open, twisting around in Gerard's grip to see if the laundry guy up front is watching or, oh God, if he has his cell phone out already to take pictures, but no, no, he's tilted way back in his chair, headphones on, eyes closed, out, as far as Frank can tell.

"Hey," Gerard's saying against Frank's lips. "Hey, c'mere." He has his hand on Frank's cheek, nudging his face back to Gerard's, and then he's kissing him again. And oh man, they're kisses like Frank hasn't had in so many weeks, not since he left Jersey - intense and needy and wanting and Gerard is right the fuck up against him, shoving his feet apart, and moving right in between Frank's legs.  

Frank hears a sound and realizes he's moaning into Gerard's mouth, because Jesus, they're really going for it. Gerard's got his fingers dug into Frank's hips, all frantic, hanging on, and somehow Frank's got his arms twined around Gerard, dragging him closer, even though Gerard's pressed up against him so close that Frank's back is digging into the lip of the table. Gerard's hard, Frank realizes, that's what he's feeling up against his hip, and with the realization, Frank's about a thousand times more turned on than before. He's hard, too, like, _instant_ boner, and when he pushes it forward against Gerard, Gerard moans into his mouth, loud, and _shoves_ up against Frank with his hips.

"Jesus." Frank's panting, fuck, there's no air, everything around them is hot and thick and smells powder fucking fresh. "Fuck, Gerard, _fuck_ , I - "  

Gerard's mouthing down his jawline, Jesus _fuck_ , and digging his teeth into his neck, and Frank is up on his toes, his fingers tight on Gerard's shoulders. "Shit, shit, fucking _fuck_ ," he's hissing, because oh man, oh _God_. "Can you -" He has to clamp his mouth shut, dragging air in through his nose, as Gerard bites down right where Frank's neck meets his shoulder and Frank feels it through his whole entire _body_.

Gerard moves back up, is kissing him again like his life fucking depends on it, like he needs it for _air_. Frank's kissing him back, frantically, wrapping himself around Gerard, fuck, mother _fuck_ , he wants to climb him like a tree.

"Fuck." Gerard's got his hands tight around Frank's hips and he's staring at him all crazy, as he clutches him. He shoots a look around the laundromat, like he's looking for a _door_ , or a _room_ , _some_ place, but there isn't anything. Frank's heart is pounding so hard he can barely hear and he just - he wants - he fucking wants, so bad, to just -

"Fuck, Frank." Gerard's fumbling at the front of Frank's jeans and it's so stupid, it's so fucking dumb.

"We can't -" Frank manages. "We can't do -"

  "Gotta." Gerard sounds strangled, fucking _lost_ in it, and he's got Frank's jeans open, fuck, bad idea, _bad idea_. Only then he has his hand wrapped around Frank's cock and it's suddenly the greatest idea in the whole wide world, Jesus fucking _Christ_. "Frank, fuck, _fuck_ , your cock -"  

That's it, that's apparently as far as Gerard can go, but Frank appreciates the sentiment and he can't do anything but shove his hips forward, his sneakers skidding a little on the linoleum floor. They're in the back of a fucking late-night laundromat and his dick's out and Gerard's hand is warm and damp around it, and fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_.

Frank's closer than he should be, but he wants _more_ , and fuck it, he can always make a bad idea worse. He drags his head up from where it's sagged back on his shoulders, struggles his hands in between them, trying to work Gerard's jeans open.

"Help me, motherfucker," he demands. The top button is wedged shut. "Jesus Christ, did these even fit you back at the start of tour?"  

Gerard pulls back a little, looking at him reproachfully. "Fuck you, they still fit. They're just snug."

  "I can see the shape of your nuts through the denim." Frank starts tugging at the button again, determined. "Not that I'm complaining. But I'd like to be able to get to them in real life someday."

It takes the two of them to get the button open, looking down between them, hands tangled together. Frank's giggling breathlessly and Gerard's frowning in determination, and when it finally gives, Frank crows in celebration and yanks on the denim, ripping the rest of the buttons open in quick succession.

"Watch it, I love these jeans," Gerard says, but he shuts up real quick when Frank wraps a hand around his dick. "Fuck." Gerard's up on his toes and he doesn't seem to even know he's doing it, pushing himself forward into Frank's fist. He drops his head down to Frank's shoulder, watching as Frank jerks him off. Frank can see how his mouth has dropped open, his lips a little wet, and fuck, that, and Gerard watching the way Frank's hand moves on his dick is getting him going even harder.

"Shit," Gerard breathes out, his hips twitching forward like he can't help it, like he wants to fuck Frank's hand, but Jesus, he's so into watching. Frank can see it, can see how he can't fucking tear his gaze away, how he's holding himself back to see what Frank is doing to him.

And Frank is - Jesus, he's so hard and hot, but Gerard's hanging onto his hip with one hand, the table behind him with the other, and Frank can't stop jerking Gerard off, his eyes going back and forth between his hand moving on Gerard's dick and Gerard's face, his cheeks all flushed, his lower lip now caught between his teeth as he groans softly, his eyes still focused down. "Fuck," Frank mutters, still trying to keep it low, because they are so fucking screwed if the dude up front wakes up. "Fuck, Gerard, can you - I need -"

  He doesn't know what he's asking for, he's not sure _what_ he needs, other than for Gerard to _touch his dick_.

Gerard looks up, finally, his hair falling over his forehead, damp and dark along the hairline. Frank can hardly take Gerard looking at him like that.

"Frank," Gerard says. That's it, that's all, but in the next second, he's pushing Frank's hand away from his dick, crowding him even closer against the table. He's got his hands on the waist of Frank's jeans, shoving them down his hips. Frank can feel the cool of the table against his ass and this is one of the stupider things they've done. But he can't _stop_ , because that's Gerard's dick against him, sliding forward and up against his own dick. _Fuck_.

It's dry, it's not enough, but it's close. Frank pushes at Gerard, shoves him away just enough that he can spit in his own hand, and wrap it around his cock, sliding it up and down, getting it a little wet.

"Fuck, that's hot," Gerard says under his breath, and Frank grins breathlessly and spits in his palm again before wrapping his hand around Gerard.

Gerard hisses in a breath, then he shoves his hips forward, and Frank drags his hand away so - oh fuck, oh _yeah_ \- Gerard can just slide up against him. He's so fucking _hot_ , Frank can feel the heat of his skin as Gerard makes a little sound in his throat. The table is hard against Frank's back and Gerard is panting up against his neck, his fingers digging into Frank's hip. Frank's jeans are sliding down his thighs, as Gerard just fucking _humps_ him up against the table.

"Fuck, fuck, Frank, Jesus, I -" Gerard pants out, too loud, fucking hell, he's shaking like he's close, and he can't lose it like that, not here.

  "Quiet, Gee, fuck," Frank gasps out, warningly.

"Can't." He's still too loud. "Frank -"

  "Shut up." Frank shoves a hand, slick with sweat and spit, over Gerard's mouth, hard. "Quiet, fuck, just -"  

Gerard's eyes go wide and hot over Frank's hand, and Frank can _feel_ the moan that he makes against his palm, and then Gerard's whole body is shaking hard as he shoves forward against Frank and comes all over his stomach.

Gerard's slumps against him and Frank pulls his hand away from Gerard's mouth, saying, "Jesus fucking Christ, your _face_ when I -"  

"Shut up," Gerard says, twisting his head against Frank's shoulder. He sounds a little embarrassed, and that gets Frank even harder. "Just - _you_ try being quiet."

  Gerard drops to his knees and Frank jams a hand against his own mouth as Gerard licks a long stripe up Frank's dick and sucks him in.

It's barely a fucking blowjob, because Frank is so close to the motherfucking edge that he just pushes himself into Gerard's hot fucking mouth once, twice, groans way too loud around his hand, and comes.

Frank's knees are shaking so hard that he nearly goes down. Gerard grabs him as he pushes himself to his feet, props him up against the table, grinning and running his tongue over his lips in a way that should be completely silly, and _is_ , but it's hot at the same time. Because it's Gerard, and he can do that.

"Fuck," Frank says, dazed.

"Shh," Gerard says, looking over his shoulder towards the front of the store.

" _Now_ you're worried about noise?" Frank asks, peeking over Gerard's shoulder, too, to try to see. The quiet, hideous music is still playing over the speakers, and the kid up front is still zoned out, thank fucking God.

Gerard grins broadly. "Priorities," he says. His dick's still out, and sticky, and he looks around for a second before grabbing a t-shirt - _Frank's_ t-shirt - off the mound of clean clothes behind them.

"Wait-" But Frank's too late, Gerard's already using it to swab himself off.

"What?" he says, looking back up at Frank and - oh fucking hell - tossing the now-gross t-shirt back on the pile of clean laundry.

"Don't," Frank moans, grabbing for it and getting a handful of sticky stuff, ugh ugh _ugh_. He drops it away from the clean clothes on the table.

" _What_?" Gerard says again, looking genuinely perplexed. He finishes tucking himself back in, tugs his t-shirt down. "Dude, you're still all -"

He gestures at Frank's dick and Frank frowns and starts to put himself away, but fuck, his stomach is covered with Gerard's come and it's all over his t-shirt, too, and just -

"Here." Gerard helpfully plucks another shirt from the pile behind them, and Frank looks at it for a second, then groans again, and takes it, using it to wipe his stomach off.

After he gets himself sorted out, he tugs off his come-covered t-shirt, gingerly, letting it drop to the floor as he sighs and grabs yet another shirt off the table to put on. "You know," he says glumly to Gerard. "Those three shirts are like a week's worth of relatively clean clothes."

"Sorry," Gerard says, but he's humming to himself and sort of rocking back on his heels, hands tucked in his jeans pockets, watching Frank. He doesn't look sorry.

Frank wipes his hands one last time on his jeans, glancing at the pile of clothes. "We still gotta fold those," he says, but he's not really thinking that hard about laundry right now. His brain is still working its way around what just happened. He wants to call Jamia real bad, and he has a moment of checking and being really glad his phone hadn't fallen out of his pocket when Gerard was blowing him.

Oh man. Gerard had _blown_ him. He had just - they had just - goddamn. He really needs to call Jamia.

"It's okay," Gerard says, drifting over towards the pile of laundry and poking at it a little before resolutely picking up a pair of jeans and starting to fold them. "I'll get started here."

  Frank blinks at him.

"Go call her," Gerard says. He's studying a button-down shirt in his hand like it's a mystery that needs to be solved. "What time is it in Jersey?"

Frank glances up at the clock on the wall. "Ten."

"Go," Gerard says again. He leans his hip up against the table, looking at Frank. His face is soft and serious for a second, studying Frank's face, and then he gives Frank this crooked smile that Frank knows like he knows his own face.

"Okay." Frank can't help but grin back. He stands there for a second, looking at Gerard, the clean laundry in a mountain behind him. "I - okay." He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolling down to Jamia's cell as he heads towards the front of the store.

The kid on the desk up front jerks awake as Frank brushes past the desk, blinking up at him in confusion. "Fuck," he says, sitting forward and running his hand over his mouth. "I mean. You guys need anything?"

  "Nope." Frank glances back and he can just see Gerard's red hair practically glowing under the unforgiving lights of the laundromat. "We're good."

The kid shrugs then and slouches back down in his chair as Frank pushes out the door, hitting the call button. He rocks back on his heels, looking up at the stars as he waits for his girl to answer.

the end    


End file.
